Lovers in a Dangerous Time
by kishiria
Summary: NOW COMPLETE!!!!! Forbidden love on the frontlines of the One Year War.
1. Girl Meets Boy

Another lovely lunch with a very nice boy in the ever-so-perfect dining room of a five-star hotel. Which one was it now? Oh yes, a Four Seasons. Iserina Estenbach flaked her poached salmon with a fork and remembered she hadn't made eye contact with her date in a few minutes. She raised her big blue eyes to him and feigned interest. He was a young stockbroker, dark haired, athletic, a racquetball player. Her father had chosen him as a potential good husband for her.  
  
Ten more minutes in his presence, and she was going to scream.  
  
It'd be a good scream, too. A glass-shattering, diaphragm-wrenching scream that would leave her throat raw.   
  
Oh, who was she trying to kid? This guy (what was his name again? Chad! Who the hell named their kid after a drought-ridden third world country anyway?) fit all her requirements. He had money. He was physically more than acceptable. He didn't show any obvious signs of being a psychopath. He hadn't mentioned airplanes as being one of his passions, but that wasn't something Iserina had encountered in any guy she dated. Still, as long as she was able to take her jet out whenever she wanted, life would be endurable.  
  
When Chad asked if he could see her again, Iserina said yes. Why not?   
  
She drove off in her five-months-old sports car with the top down, letting the wind dishevel her perfect blond hair. She crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and headed north into Queens, Long Island being her ultimate destination.  
  
Detour first. She got off the expressway and headed towards a cemetery she knew. Iserina liked Italian cemeteries because there were often photographs in ceramic plaques on the tombstones. She would get out of her car, wander through the cemetery until she found the image of someone who looked like they might have cared, then sit down and cry her eyes out in the illusion of being with a sympathetic ear.  
  
She settled on an old favourite this time, a couple married 63 years, dead within months of each other. The woman was broad-faced, broad-nosed, with crimped dark hair. Her husband was much the same, with the alikeness that came from years of companionship. Iserina would have liked to have had them as grandparents. She sat down beside their grave and began to sob.  
  
What would they have said to her, a poor little rich girl whose only objective in life at the moment was to find a rich husband who would indulge her whims while only demanding that she be a nice trophy who wouldn't embarrass him in public? Someone who would ignore her, let her pursue her interests, but most importantly, get her away from her father?  
  
She leaned back against the stone. She'd have loved to fly out to Paris or London, the way she and her mother had before the war. Now North America was under Jion control and travel to Europe was restricted because it was still free. There was Los Angeles, she supposed. Los Angeles was nice. Her father would probably allow that.   
  
Alan Estenbach was the former mayor of New York. He'd been removed by the Jions when North America had fallen, but the invaders had not made any attempt to imprison him. They'd allowed him and Iserina to retire out to their house in Long Beach and live their lives in peace.  
  
That, Estenbach had told Iserina as she was unpacking, would be their fatal mistake.  
  
Their home was a beehive of clandestine activity, but she wasn't party to it. Iserina's job was to play hostess, look pretty, and little else. Sooner or later, she'd be married off to a man of her father's choosing, either someone like Chad to support the war effort or as a reward to someone for a job well done.  
  
On arriving back at the house, she stepped into her father's office to give him a status report on the date.  
  
"So what did you think?" asked Estenbach.  
  
"He's a nice boy," Iserina answered. "Everything you're looking for. His family own shipbuilding facilities in Quebec and he's made a personal fortune investing in something called Anaheim Electronics."  
  
"You're going out with him again?"  
  
"I said I would."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
"Daddy, may I fly out to Los Angeles this weekend?"  
  
"Not this weekend. We have a reception. The Jions are transferring that weirdo M'Qubé from the command of their North American forces and replacing him with someone else."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"One of the Royal Family, believe it or not. Anyway, that's what the reception's for. Your job is the usual one; be charming, listen for whatever you can hear."  
  
"All right. You know, Daddy, with my pilot's license I could be doing a lot more than just looking pretty at parties for you."  
  
He picked some papers off his desk. "No. I've told you that before. Too dangerous."  
  
Iserina nodded and rose, knowing he wouldn't say another word.   
  
With no plans for the next day, she decided to go back into the city and sulk in an art museum. On the train in, she pondered which museum to see and settled on the Cloisters. They had the famous tapestry of the captured unicorn, and that was a theme with which she could readily identify.  
  
She paid her fee and went inside. On a weekday, the museum of medieval art was usually quite empty. This was the case today, but she wasn't the only admirer of the unicorn tapestry.  
  
Not that she thought she'd mind this company. He was her age, eighteen or so, about five foot seven in his black hightop sneakers. His jeans weren't snug, but still accentuated a nicely-shaped rear. He was wearing a t-shirt, but she couldn't see the front because his arms were crossed in thought. Iserina could make out the lower edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. She smiled a little. A bad boy!   
  
She risked a longer glance at his face and almost swooned. He was gorgeous, easily the best-looking man she'd ever seen in her whole life. His hair was so black as to be almost blue, touching the bottom of his neck and brushed to the right. His features were sharp; arched brows, long, straight nose, delicately pointed chin.   
  
Iserina had to know more about this vision. "Hi. Been here before?"  
  
"No, this is my first time in New York."  
  
"Tourist?"  
  
He hesitated. "No, I just got a job here."  
  
"Well, I hope you like our fair city."  
  
He smiled at her and extended a graceful hand. She expected him to do something courtly like kiss hers since he seemed the type somehow, but he didn't. He shook her hand and his grip was gentle but firm. "It's looking good so far."  
  
"I'm Iserina."  
  
"Pleased to meet you. You know, I've seen this tapestry in books all the time, but I never realized what a piece of work it was. My sister's right. Some of the finest artists in history will never be known, just because they were women."  
  
"Your sister's a feminist, I take it."  
  
"Oh yeah."  
  
"I didn't catch your name?"  
  
He looked startled. He hestiated and said, "Gary."  
  
"Hi, Gary." He was lying, she knew that much, but she also got the feeling he had a serious reason. "Have you seen the armour yet? That's another thing here that I like to look at. It reminds me of knights and ladies and things like that."  
  
He tagged along. His shirt read, "Love animals: Don't eat them."  
  
A sensitive bad boy. What a find! Maybe he was an anarchist with a loft somewhere in the bad part of town where they could hide out and---  
  
Whoa, girl!  
  
"What are you into besides medieval art?" Gary asked her later as they were drinking sodas on the grass later.  
  
"You'll laugh."  
  
"So?"  
  
"I'm a jet pilot."  
  
"Professionally?"  
  
"No. I'd like to be, but I'm still only 17 and my dad hasn't decided what he wants to do with my life."  
  
"I hear that. I got sidetracked into the family business too."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Gary frowned. "You'll hear about it soon enough. Anyway, it's cool you're a jet pilot. I got my pilot's license on my 16th birthday and I've been flying ever since."  
  
"Wow. What's your equipment?"  
  
"A Kawasaki AP-12 colony plane."  
  
"You're a spacenoid. How do you like Earth?"  
  
"After I got over the agoraphobia? I like it. I like it a lot. I took a business trip to New Mexico earlier this year and it was the best time of my life. I loved it down there; the people are great, the sun is fabulous, the colours are just incredible. I wish I were a painter."  
  
"You an artist at all?"  
  
"I'm a musician."  
  
"What do you play?"  
  
"Stay here for a second." He handed her his drink and walked towards the parking lot. A few minutes later he came back with a guitar case and removed an acoustic six-string. He fine-tuned it, and began to sing in a scratchy light baritone:  
  
I would dial the numbers  
Just to listen to your breath  
I would stand inside my hell  
And hold the hand of death  
You don't know how far I'd go  
To ease this precious ache  
You don't know how much I'd give  
Or how much I can take  
  
Just to reach you  
Just to reach you  
Just to reach you  
Come to my window  
Crawl inside, wait by the light  
of the moon  
Come to my window  
I'll be home soon  
  
Keeping my eyes open  
I cannot afford to sleep  
Giving away promises  
I know that I can't keep  
Nothing fills the blackness  
That has seeped into my chest  
I need you in my blood  
I am forsaking all the rest  
Just to reach you  
Just to reach you  
Oh to reach you  
Come to my window  
Crawl inside, wait by the light  
of the moon  
Come to my window  
I'll be home soon  
  
I don't care what they think  
I don't care what they say  
What do they know about this  
love anyway*  
  
He slammed home the last chord and Iserina leaned back, entranced. This was one thing a boy had never tried to impress her. "More?" she asked.  
He obliged. Some songs she recognized, some she didn't. He didn't say if any of them were his. After wrapping up the fifth or so song, Iserina decided to go for broke.  
  
"So who are you really?"  
  
"Please don't ask me that." His eyes, which were dark enough to drown in, were downcast.  
  
"I have to know, or I'll explode. You just spent the last half hour pouring your heart out through music. I must know who you are!"  
  
"All right." He turned his right arm towards her and pulled up the sleeve. The tattoo was a Celtic-style tribal band, a common enough theme, but at the centre of it was the crest of the Kingdom of Jion.  
  
"You're the enemy."  
  
"Yeah. I'm the enemy." He lay his guitar back in its case and got to his feet. Iserina seized his hand.  
  
"So you're a Jion. That tells me what you are, but not who."  
  
He sat back down and began twisting a lock of his hair around his forefinger. "My name's Garma Zabi. Prince Garma Zabi of the Jion royal family. I'm here to take over command of the North American forces. There. You happy? I was trying to forget about it for just a few hours."  
  
"I'm not sorry. I couldn't hear that much passion and not know who you are. Now that I know, I don't care. Really. I mean, how many girls get serenaded by a real, live prince every day?"  
  
He grinned. "It's not something I've done a lot. Only for special people." He glanced away for a moment, then looked back up at her. "May I take you out to dinner?"  
  
She sighed. "I'd love that, but my dad expects me home."  
  
"Oh. Another time, then?"  
  
"Please." She remembered her previous conversation with her father and said, "Wait. There's a reception for you on Saturday."  
  
"Yes. What about it?"  
  
"My father is former mayor Estenbach. I have to go to it with him."  
  
"Great!"  
  
"No, it's not. My dad hates Jions. You and I will be in the same room together, but it won't be a date."  
  
"As long as I can look at you, I'll be happy."  
  
With that, Iserina felt herself fall in love. Her heart suddenly felt warm and fluttery and she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this boy she'd just met.  
  
"Me too," she squeaked, then giggled at how stupid she sounded.  
  
"Let me drive you to the train station."  
  
Garma was a scary driver. It's not that he wasn't skilled, because he was extremely controlled behind the wheel, but he seemed to have absolutely no fear. He tore through Manhattan traffic as if other drivers were merely slow-movers on a highway. At a red light he noticed her pale face and looked horrified.  
  
"I'm sorry, Iserina! I should be driving more gently. My dad always makes me promise before he gets into a car with me that I won't give him a heart attack."  
  
"I think I'll ask you for that in the future too," she said.  
  
"My other plane is a Dopp," he explained.  
  
"Oh. I'd love to fly one of those. They're so funny-looking I can't imagine how they'd handle."  
  
Unfortunately, the train station was right ahead. Garma cruised the block looking for parking and finally forced a taxi out of a spot, screaming in fluent Russian at the man. He settled back into his seat and said, "Well, here you are."  
  
"Thanks for the drive. And the music. You're very talented."  
  
"Thank you. Here." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. There was a pen in the glove compartment and he scribbled something on it. "This is my personal e-mail address. Don't use the one on the front of the card; that's the one on the Royal Family web site and it goes through assistants before getting to me."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You'll e-mail me, then?"  
  
"I will, as soon as I get home."  
  
They sat wordlessly for a moment and then gave in to a force as strong and natural as gravity, leaning towards each other until their lips touched. Garma seemed uncertain, so Iserina placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer. Encouraged, his arms went around her and their first kiss felt like coming home. When they leaned back, she saw that his eyes were filled with wonder.   
  
No man had ever looked at her like that before.  
  
"I have to go or I'll miss my train," she whispered. "I'll e-mail you."  
  
She walked across the street to the train station feeling as if the whole world had changed. There was life before the kiss and life after it, and Iserina knew that it would never go back to what it once was. Nor would she want it to.  
  
"Did you have a nice day at the museum?" her father asked when she returned to the house.  
  
"I saw some beautiful things," she told him, and left it at that.  
  
  
*Neither Garma nor I can lay claim to these lyrics. It's "Come To My Window" by Melissa Etheridge. 


	2. Boy and Girl Date

To: garmaz@zabihome.royal.jion.gov  
From: iserina.estenbach@ubimail.com  
Subject: I said I would mail  
  
Hi again. Thanks again for the ride to the train station.   
  
I'd really like to see you again, Garma. We just have to work out a way. I know the Jion airbase is out towards White Plains, and that's kind of a long ways away. We'll have to choose a safe meeting place.  
  
My father hates Jions passionately, and I certainly can't blame him. I feel more neutral for reasons I won't get into here. I was kind of shocked when you showed me your tattoo, but I got over it fast (grins). I don't believe that this war can be ended by hate.   
  
So, what else are you about, besides music? I know you've got a big family. It's just me and Dad; mom left him two years ago and the courts gave me to him, like I was the TV or something. I'm 17 and have finished high school. Dad is trying to decide if I should go to college or get married to one of his pals, or what. I date who he tells me to. He isn't going to like you one bit, which is a good thing in my opinion.  
  
Yours truly, Iserina.  
  
Iserina hit "send" then printed the letter from the sent box and deleted it. She didn't know if her father ever looked in her computer when she wasn't around, but she couldn't take the chance. She took the printout and opened the door to her closet. There was a piece of loose carpet in there where she kept her secrets. She lifted it, folded the letter, and lay it underneath.  
  
A few minutes later, her computer laughed, meaning she had mail Iserina pounced on it, but it was an e-mail from Sonya, her best friend. That was important enough, but not what she'd been waiting for.  
  
That mail arrived close to midnight. She opened the letter and breathlessly read the contents:  
  
Dear Iserina:  
  
I don't know the area very well, so if you have any ideas, let me hear them. I think I'm probably more free to move than you are, so choose the location.  
  
So your dad hates Jions? I'll just have to convince him otherwise. Don't worry; I can be very charming. But I think you know that (very big grin).  
  
As for me, I'm 20, vegetarian, as politically liberal as I can be within the Royal Family. I have three brothers and one sister; another brother died when I was 10. I'm an avid horseback rider and I play hockey whenever I can. My favourite kinds of music are 20th century American punk and 19th century classical. Along with the acoustic guitar you heard me play, I also play bass guitar and piano.  
  
On the negative side, my health is kind of dicey and I'm a filthy smoker (although I'm desperately trying to stop).  
  
I'm looking forward to disgusting your father on Saturday.  
  
{{{}}} Garma.  
  
Iserina opened her closet and touched the cellophane wrapping the dress she was going to wear. The gown was white with black details, very formal. She smiled.   
  
***********  
  
The reception of the new North American commander was taking place on the Jion base. Usually Garma was indifferent to these events, seeing them as being part of his job and nothing more. Tonight, though, he found himself singing happily to himself in the shower, smiling at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved. After drying off, he slid into briefs and a long-sleeved undershirt. His valet had left his uniform on a clothes tree for him. His shoes (not boots for this) had an oil-slick gleam. The dark-green trousers had a crease ironed into them sharp enough to cut himself. His green tunic was equally pressed. Since this was a very formal occasion, Garma would be wearing a short black cape and velvet, gold-embroidered panels over the chest. Garma called his valet in to check that every detail of his uniform was in place.  
  
Garma's valet was Lt. Carl Jorgensen, a professional tailor with a degree in clothing design who had signed into the military at the beginning of the war out of pure patriotism. He was in his late 20s, blond, with a very Germanic rectangular face and neatly-clipped hair. He had been working in an administrative position when he was interviewed as a valet for either Dozel or Garma. Dozel had rejected Carl out of hand because he was uncomfortable with the idea of a gay man working that intimately with him. Garma hired him on the spot, knowing he'd always be immaculately uniformed with his insignia gleaming and properly placed.   
  
Carl doublechecked Garma's rank tabs with a ruler, picked some miniscule bits of lint from the velvet, and adjusted the way his cape lay. Garma knew that Carl's finicky inspections were half professional pride and half because it was an opportunity to get his hands on Garma's person. Garma welcomed the touch, being physically affectionate by nature, but had never encouraged him further. The inspection finished, Garma picked up his speech and two other items from his desk and went outside onto the balcony.  
  
The uniform, which would have been comfortable in the controlled climate of Side 3, was far too warm here and Garma immediately began to feel sticky. This was the price he paid for being an addict, he supposed as he sat down on an outdoor chair with the speech on the table beside him. He pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an antique lighter. He smoked quietly as he reviewed his speech, feeling nicotine have its usual soothing effect.   
  
After a few minutes he folded the papers neatly and tucked them into his belt. Garma went to the rail of the balcony, lit a second cigarette off the remains of the first, and flicked the butt into the air. The glowing stub narrowly avoided igniting his personal standard which was hanging over the doorway of the building. Garma didn't usually chain-smoke, and he realized that he must be under more stress than he usually admitted to feeling. Between Iserina and this presentation of himself as new commander of North America....Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!   
  
Not that he wasn't happy about the situation. Finally, his family had given him a position of some authority. He was ruling over as many people as his father, really. The Side 3 Times and Mail had coined the nickname, "Eaglet of Jion" for Garma, and he quite liked that. Now, if only this eaglet could find a chance to fly....  
  
The first guests were starting to arrive. There was a garden hose on the balcony to water the plants and small trees growing on the balcony. Garma cast a longing gaze at it, aching in his bones to turn on the water and aim the hose at the guests, but he resisted. He crushed out his smoke and went inside for mouthwash before going downstairs.  
  
Iserina sat primly beside her father in the backseat of the car, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her father was becoming twitchy without his usual cigar, but she appreciated his not wanting to make her smell of it. Not wanting to give her little secret away, she had avoided talking about this evening at all or asking questions about it like, "So, which member of the Royal Family is it?"  
  
Her father broached the topic for her.  
  
"Here's what you need to know. The new commander's Prince Garma, the youngest of Degin Zabi's offspring. He's just a kid, so we're hoping he can be intimidated. Reports have it he's vain, so it might be easy to flatter him into telling things he shouldn't. Of course, he's also young so it's possible he might not be told a damn thing by his family. He's got an awfully large terrain to run for a figurehead, though. Your job is to see if you can get him talking, feel him out a bit. So to speak."  
  
"What if he sweeps me off my feet?"  
  
"Don't even joke about that," Estenbach snapped.  
  
The house was a large Georgian mansion with a blue flag bearing a Jion crest and a Latin motto over the door. Estenbach went up the steps with Iserina at his heels. She followed her father through a security arch in the foyer and joined the other well-dressed people in the ballroom.  
  
There he was. Iserina inhaled as soon as she laid eyes on him again. He was even more beautiful than before, clad in green with accents of gold and black. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and sipped it. Her mouth had become very dry.  
  
Garma glanced away from the men he was speaking to for a moment and his eyes met hers, but he didn't acknowledge her presence otherwise. For a moment she felt rejected, then stopped that line of thought. He wasn't rejecting her, he was being professional, something about which she needed to snap to.   
  
She knew she should still try to hear what he was saying and nonchalantly walked over in his direction, eyes fixed on a painting nearby. Without signalling any interest in speaking to him, Iserina brushed past, catching a rather interesting snippet of talk.  
  
"...mi gente, los Jiones, creemos fuertamente en la liberacion de Puerto Rico. Et vous, Monsieur Ouellete, nous sentions profondement le douleur du gens du pays du Quebec..."  
  
Oh boy, she thought to herself as she admired the painting. Aren't we the little troublemaker? She turned from the painting and wandered past a few other Jion officers, who fell silent as she went past. This was an unfortunate side effect of her being ears for her father; sometimes she stopped conversations. Her dressed wasn't even low-cut this evening.  
  
She'd hear more as Garma circulated and allowed himself to become a subject of talk. She returned to her father who was discussing possible changes to the tax structure which, to his chagrin, had become an easier burden under the Jions.  
  
The time came for Garma to deliver his speech and finally, it was acceptable to stare at him. Iserina glanced around the room. Most of the women in there looked ready to drop their evening gowns at the slightest hint of provocation from him. Eat your hearts out, girls, she thought triumphantly, he's mine.  
  
"I'd like to thank you all, friends, for giving me a chance to speak to you tonight."  
  
"That's his standard opening," Estenbach grunted to one of his cronies.  
  
"I know this is an ambiguous occasion. On one hand, North America is still adjusting to a new Jion regime. On the other, the regime has passed into younger hands than those of my successor, Colonel M'Qube. I like to think I'm a cleaner slate, more open to new ideas, especially ideas from you.  
  
"Americans are known as nothing if not courageous, strong, open-hearted people. These are qualities that both I and His Majesty's government which I represent hope to encourage, joining the American fire for independence with our own. The Americas, from Tuktoyaktuk in the Northwest Territories to the border of Oaxaca in Mexico, have too long suffered under Federation tyranny. Che Guevara once said that the only hope for America lay in revolution. In Jion, America has finally found its revolution.   
  
"As with all revolutions, change must come from the grassroots. Most of you don't represent the grassroots. Of course, neither do I. Nonetheless, it is our task as members of a priveleged class to spread the word of freedom, to inspire courage in our people, letting it show so that we all might strengthen each other.   
  
"I was only a very small child when Jion Deykun spread his teaching that humanity must spread to the stars to allow Mother Earth to recover. I was of course taught his philosophies as I was growing up. Personally, I have also rejected them. I do not advocate the forced relocation of people from Earth to the Sides. I believe responsible stewardship of the planet and its resources is a far better way, with mutual sharing between those living on earth and those in space. The Federation has stood in the way of this sharing, but for you here now, this has ended. It is my pledge that openess and cooperation will be the hallmarks of my relationship with the people of the Americas. Thank you very much."  
  
"Mutual sharing? Quotes from Che Guevara? What the hell is this?" one of Estenbach's friends whispered as the polite applause began. "Estenbach, you better send your daughter to talk to this kid, because we're not going to be able to."  
  
"Quiet. He's heading this way," the former mayor said.  
  
"Mr Estenbach. I've heard a lot about you."  
  
"Your Highness." Estenbach, who was substantially taller than Garma, shook his hand. "I'd be curious to know what you've heard."  
  
"That even though His Majesty's government removed you and replaced you with a mayor of its choosing, that you remain here in order to advocate for your citizens."  
  
"You find this troubling?"  
  
"On the contrary, I find it admirable. It shows that you're not just a politician but a man who looks out for the wellfare of others." He turned to Iserina. "And who is this?"  
  
"Prince Garma, my daughter Iserina."  
  
"Charmed." Now he bent down and kissed her hand. Iserina's heart leapt as his eyes met hers and she felt a small piece of paper being pressed into her hand. She closed her fist around it.  
  
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Your Highness."  
  
"Do you attend this sort of event often?"  
  
"I usually accompany my father to them, yes."  
  
"Well I shall hope to see you often, then. If you'll excuse me." He executed a short bow and walked off to another group of people.  
  
Iserina said she needed another drink and went back to the bar. She glanced at the paper in her hand which said, "Cloakroom, 9:15."  
  
That was 20 minutes away. At 9:17 she excused herself to the ladies', and found that the cloakroom was conveniently placed across from the washrooms. She turned the knob carefully and stepped inside. The room wasn't in use at the moment, it being too warm for coats. Garma was leaning against the far wall, beside the window. Light from outside cast him in a silvery glow. Iserina rushed to him and he met her halfway, his lips crushing against hers. His skin was hot underneath the fabric of his uniform, especially when she slid her hands under the velvet of his cape. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair but knew she mustn't dishevel it. What she really wanted to do, of course, was slide that tunic right off him, feel his bare flesh under her hands...  
  
"This is crazy," he panted.  
  
"I couldn't wait to talk to you," she told him. "My father wants us to talk."  
  
"Not right now," he insisted, and his mouth was over hers again.  
  
A few minutes later, they came up for air. Iserina tipped her head back, inhaling the atmosphere of the cloakroom, which was becoming muggier by the second. Garma held her close, his cheek pressed against hers. Iserina opened her eyes. "Look. We've steamed up the window."  
  
Garma looked over and laughed softly. "So we did. Well. I suppose we should get back out there. I said I was going to make a brief phone call and I suppose you needed to powder your nose or whatever it is girls do."  
  
"Talk about you boys."  
  
"I'll see you later out there, then. I just wanted us to have a few minutes by ourselves."  
  
"Make sure none of my makeup's on your face."  
  
He saluted jokingly. "Will do." He opened the door and was gone. Iserina counted to ten, peeked out into the hall, and slipped across to the ladies' room to repair her lipstick.  
  
Later, in the car returning to Long Island, Estenbach asked Iserina, "So what do you think of him?"  
  
She considered her words carefully. "I think he was chosen for his youth appeal. He certainly wasn't chosen for his subtle politics. It's like they did a focus group on people under 21 and asked, 'Which of the Zabi royal family would you most like to be your dictator?'."  
  
Estenbach laughed. "No question, the Zabis are courting young America. No surprise, really, youth always have the shortest memories. So, you found his politics heavy-handed?"  
  
"Absolutely! I mean, the whole 'look at me! I'm a revolutionary!' thing was quite obvious."  
  
Her father laughed again. "It was, wasn't it? Maybe it's best for him he's on Earth. Those siblings of his would eat him alive back home."  
  
Iserina rushed into her room and straight to her computer. Sure enough, there was an e-mail from Garma waiting for her:  
  
Dear Iserina: That's it, there is no way in the universe I'm going to be able to stay away from you. Arrange a meeting place. I'll make sure I can fit it into my agenda.  
  
{{{{}}}} G.  
  
Iserina sat back and considered. Often she would go into the city on Fridays and spend the night with her friend Sonya, with brunch and shopping on Saturday. She wasn't sure how Sonya would feel about her seeing a Jion prince, though. She'd lost an aunt and uncle during Operation British. Of course...there were lots of other famous people in Manhattan, people who might not want the public to know about their girlfriends. She could just as easily be dating a weird reclusive author or actor or something.  
  
She sat back down at the keyboard and wrote the relevant mails to Sonya and Garma. This could all just work out.  
  
****  
  
"So, what's your mystery man's name?" Sonya asked Iserina over a sushi dinner.  
  
"Gary."  
  
"Gary who?"  
  
"That'd be telling."  
  
"Okay. Let's play 20 questions and see if I can figure it out. What's he do?"  
  
"Musician."  
  
"Anything I've heard?"  
  
"Can't tell you."  
  
"Darn, you're frustrating, girl. I'll tell you one thing, though, I've never seen you smiling this much because of a guy, ever." Sonya grinned at her. "I will figure it out, you know."  
  
"You can try, but I'll warn you, I'll be really mad if you pry too far. You can meet him when I think the time's right."  
  
The next morning, when Iserina left with her overnight bag over her shoulder, Sonya couldn't resist pulling a pair of binoculars out of her dresser and watching from her 6th floor apartment as her friend went down the street. She saw Iserina meet up with an androgynous type in a baggy t-shirt, button-fly jeans, and a baseball cap turned backwards. They kissed, took each others' hands, and walked away.  
  
"So, Iserina's gone lesbo," Sonya chuckled. "Blame her dad, making her date those assholes. Well, your secret's safe with me, hun. Don't envy you when you bring Butch to meet your pop, though." She put the binoculars away and went to make her coffee.  
  
"How come nobody's recognizing you?" Iserina whispered to Garma as they sat in a café, waiting for their breakfast.  
  
"Compare me at the reception last week to the way I look now."  
  
"True." Iserina sipped her latte. "So, my dad thinks you're a hippie."  
  
"That's what my oldest brother calls me. That's not likely to get any better either, because I really like Earth and have signed a whole bunch of conservation bills." He twiddled with some hair by his ear, since his forelock was covered by his baseball cap.  
  
"I think that's wonderful. All Daddy ever signed were a lot of laws to keep street people out of sight and in the jails."  
  
"Why didn't he just budget psychiactric drugs or detox and get them jobs?"  
  
"Didn't want to spend the tax dollars."  
  
"I'll look into it. We tried it on Ji-- I mean, in my home state, and it's worked." He paused as a plate of whole-wheat pancakes was placed in front of him. "Enough of that. What do you do for fun?"  
  
"I shop. Hang out with my girlfriends. What else is there? I don't have a job besides being deposed First Lady of the city. Dad won't let me make my own decision to go to college or look for a husband. He sets me up with these jerks, and I go out with them, and nothing ever comes of it in case I go to college. But I don't go to college because I'm dating these jerks."  
  
"That's too messed up. I had to fight Dad to go away to school, but I did it."  
  
"I guess you're just made of stronger stuff than me," she concluded.  
  
"I've been dead," he told her in the same tone of voice others might use for, "I've been to art school."  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
"I have lung problems, really bad ones, and I've been dead. It was when I was 12. I got pneumonia and my heart stopped beating for about 30 seconds."  
  
"What'd you see?" Iserina was poised with a fork of eggs halfway to her mouth.  
  
"The usual stuff. Bright light, floating near the ceiling and looking down at my body, that kind of thing. It was really a nice feeling, like if I could just get away, I'd be in the most perfect home I could ever imagine. I came from that experience with two things. One is absolutely no fear of death. I am the worst risk-taker you can imagine. The other is a feeling that I must have lived for a reason, but darned if I know what it is yet."  
  
Iserina put down her fork and put her hand over his. "Maybe we can find that out together."  
  
"Did you have fun with Sonya?" Estenbach asked Iserina when she returned to the house, carrying shopping bags.   
  
"Yes, Daddy." She came over to his easy chair where he was reading the paper and gave him a kiss. "I'll probably go into town next weekend too. There's an art exhibit I want to see."  
  
"All right. The deposed Prime Minister of Canada is in town, with her son. That's midweek, there's a reception at Gracie Manor on Thursday. That means our little revolutionary wannabe will be there with his cohort, so perhaps he'll be Ottawa-bound soon after. What'd you buy?"  
  
Iserina showed him one of the dresses.  
  
"Oh no. That colour is entirely wrong on you. Take it back."  
  
"Daddy! You're not the one who has to wear it."  
  
"I don't care. You have to look your best, and that colour makes your face look green. Show me the others."  
  
She did, and he approved of those. At least she had another reason to go into town, she reflected.  
  
If Iserina was in the city, then so was Garma. He'd find a reason to tear south from White Plains in his sports car, although sometimes he'd have to stop along the way and change shirts and shoes, meaning he'd still be wearing his uniform trousers with a casual shirt and sneakers.   
  
"Did that hurt?" Iserina asked him one afternoon, stroking her fingers over his tattoo as he was driving. The black-marked skin was warm and soft, with no raised surface or blistery feel as she might have expected.  
  
"The outside wasn't too bad. The skin on the inside of my arm was pretty special, though--I didn't think I'd see it through. My friend Char had come along to watch and I grabbed his hand and made him feel my pain." Garma chuckled at the memory. "He couldn't use his hand for the next two days. He was pretty mad at me, cause he's another pilot."  
  
"I should do that one of these days."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Talk is cheap."  
  
She glared at him. "Turn the car around, Garma."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"We're going back to the city." Her eyes were blue fire. "Turn the car around and head for Washington Square."  
  
Iserina appeared at home around 8 pm. Her father was watching television.  
  
"You were gone a long time."  
  
"I met Sonya and Gina after they got off work. I had a couple of wine spritzers and went to Gina's to clear my head."  
  
"Damn Jion liquor laws. 17 should be underage."  
  
Iserina dropped into the armchair beside his and yelped.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing...I banged my hip real hard on the arm of one of the seats in the subway."  
  
"Ouch. Well put some ice on it and it should be fine." He turned back to the comedy he was watching. "You like this show, don't you, punkin?"  
  
"It's okay. I'll watch it with you. We haven't watched TV together in a long time."  
  
After the show, Iserina went upstairs with some ice wrapped in a paper towel as her father had suggested. She changed into pajamas and pulled down the waistband of the pants to expose her hip. She removed the gauze square that was taped on to expose the picture of a small blue teddy bear, outlined now in scabby relief. She turned to admire it in the mirror and smiled.  
  
To be continued. 


	3. Boy Loses Girl

"Do you know that I can now recite all the subway stops on the F line between Rockefeller Center and Coney Island?" Garma asked Iserina as their train cleared Prospect Park station. They were sitting side-by-side in two seats at the front of the car, their fingers tightly intertwined. "Strange to think I'll always link romance with this funny musty smell."  
  
They had chosen the subway as a place to meet and talk because of the observation of Iserina's that no one ever looked at anyone else on the subway. Furthermore, if someone did, all they had to do was start kissing and the observer would look away again.  
  
"I hate to use a cliché, but we've got to stop meeting this way."  
  
"Does your dad ever go away?"  
  
"Not without me. You've kind of got your own place."  
  
"Emphasis on the 'kind of'. Site security is extremely tight, and well it should be. I couldn't bring you into my quarters without you having a thorough security check which I can assure you you'd fail."  
  
"Too much top secret stuff on your desk, huh?"  
  
His dark eyes met hers. "I can't even confirm or deny that. This isn't a game, Iserina. You don't know what I'm risking for this." He was silent for a moment. "Although maybe I can still use that secrecy to our advantage."  
  
"I don't want you in trouble, love."  
  
"So do I. Give me some time to think."  
  
The Royal Jion Cartography Service came to Garma's aid quickly. An ordinance map was produced, marked carefully, and given in an envelope to Carl. Carl was dispatched in civilian clothes to a beach in Long Island where Iserina had been instructed to wait.  
  
"His Highness asked me to give this to you."  
  
Iserina took the envelope and glanced inside. "Thank you."  
  
"I know it can't be easy for you, miss."  
  
"What can't be easy?"  
  
"Having to love him in secret like this."  
  
"No. No it isn't."  
  
"Life is unfair, taking people from such different walks of life and throwing them together so."  
Iserina took a closer look at Carl's expression. "Oh no. Carl, I'm sorry."  
  
"Social status can be a cruel thing, miss."  
  
"It can. And why should a Jion and an Earth person have any better chance than a prince and a valet?"  
  
"Indeed," Carl said enigmatically, and left her with the map.  
  
The map was for a public road that skirted the far east side of Garma's base. He had marked out a time at night, a date, and a place for her to be standing outside the fence to wait for him.  
  
It was late July, so the wait would at least not be cold. She'd used the excuse of going to Sonya's and then gave Sonya the excuse of going to a "womyn's" music festival in the midwest. Sonya had thought that was great. Late on the night selected, Iserina parked where Garma had indicated and walked up to the fence. It was dark and she felt afraid. Were there animals in these woods? Bears? Anything that could hurt her? She backed herself against the chain link and hoped Garma wouldn't be late.  
  
She nearly jumped out of her skin when a spotlight pinned her. Iserina gave a little scream and spun around. Her terror magnified when she realized that she was in the headlight of a Zaku II.   
  
Oh God, I've been caught. I've finally been caught by the enemy....  
  
"It's okay, Iserina, it's me," Garma's voice said through the Zaku's PA system. "Here."  
  
The mobile suit's massive hand reached over the fence and lowered down to her level. Iserina climbed on and held onto the thumb. The hand raised her to the level of the cockpit, which opened to reveal Garma sitting inside.  
  
"Come on in!"  
  
Iserina jumped in and settled onto Garma's lap in the pilot's seat. He closed the cockpit and changed the angle of the cameras so that all they could see on the Zaku's screens was night sky. It was quiet inside, with the whirr of the air circulation as the only sound.   
  
"Isn't this classified?" Iserina asked.  
  
He snorted. "Your government has had the plans of this antiquated thing's cockpit for ages now."  
  
Iserina ran her fingers through his hair, which was thick enough to keep her fingers from combing through it easily. She marvelled at how long his eyelashes were too; she knew girls who would kill for mascara that would do that.   
  
Garma was clearly nervous for some reason. His hands rested on her hips as if he didn't know what to do next. Well, maybe he didn't. Iserina leaned forward and kissed him, tasting peppermint on his tongue. His arms went around her and she returned the embrace. Tension was making his shoulder muscles rock-hard and she began to massage them as they kissed.  
  
"You're shaking," she observed after a moment.  
  
"I'm really nervous."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Iserina, I know we've only been going out a few months, but you've come to mean everything to me. I like being here on Earth, but you've been the absolute best thing about it."  
  
She smiled. "Better than Earth-grown veggies?"  
  
"Much better." He kissed her again briefly. "I called you out here so I could give you this."  
  
As Iserina watched, he pulled a silvertone ring from the third finger of his left hand. She'd noticed many Jions wearing them. "This is the ring worn by everybody who graduates from the Academy on Side 3. I know you can't wear it on a chain or on your finger, or anywhere people will see, but I want you to have it." He pressed it into her hand and closed her fist around it.  
  
"Garma!"   
  
He rested his forehead against hers. "I love you, Iserina."  
  
Tears sprang to her eyes. She didn't realize how much she'd been hoping to hear the words. "I love you, Garma Zabi."  
  
They held each other tightly for a few minutes before coming together again in a kiss. How could two people from such separate worlds be such a perfect match for each other, Iserina wondered. It was the element of mutual hope, she realized then. She didn't know where this love would take them, but she trusted it.  
  
*****  
Their next meeting was in the middle of a week. Carl had again delivered instructions to Iserina, directing her to a remote part of Central Park. Once, she would have refused the meeting place, saying it was too dangerous, but the Jions had been quite efficient in cleaning up the area. Consequently, she found the location of a tree-shrouded green hill by a big rock formation very romantic.   
  
Garma arrived and they sat down together to decide on what to do next. They had barely started talking when Iserina's eyes opened in horror.  
  
"DADDY!"  
  
He wasn't alone; Sonya was with him. "Iserina, come here!"  
  
"No! You can't order me around."  
  
"You're 17 years old, underage, and I can order you around as much as I need to!"  
Estenbach grabbed her arm and dragged her to his side. Garma jumped to his feet.  
  
"Mayor Estenbach, you are way out of line here!"  
  
"Shut up, you genocidal monster! You may have taken my people's lives and our land, but you aren't going to have my daughter!"  
  
"Rina, come on, honey," Sonya soothed, glaring at Garma.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Estenbach, let her go. She hasn't done anything wrong."  
  
"I'll be the judge of that."   
  
"Garma!" Iserina cried out. Her father slapped her, hard.  
  
In a split second, Garma had Estenbach by the tie. His right fist flashed outward into a straight jab to the nose. Estenbach immediately started bleeding profusely. Iserina screamed, not knowing where to turn. Estenbach grabbed for Garma's shirt and Garma reached down for a handful of dirt, hurled it into the older man's eyes, then tackled him. The two wrestled on the ground with Estenbach landing the occasional punch, but Garma's youth and agility gave him the edge. Finally Iserina grabbed her boyfriend's shoulders and hauled him off.  
  
"Stop it, both of you! Listen, Garma, if this is what it takes to make you stop fighting, so be it. I'll talk to you later." She helped her father from the ground and quietly walked away with Sonya.  
  
Garma sat on the turf for a few moments, deciding that letting it all go was a better thing to do right now than keep fighting. He'd communicate with Iserina later. Beating up her father was not the way to her heart. He'd seen the fear of her father in Iserina's eyes, but he'd seen love for Estenbach there as well. A difficult combination. He got to his feet and touched his jaw gingerly; Estenbach still packed a good right cross and he'd be swollen in the morning. He went in search of a cold bottle of water and the subway.  
  
*****  
"Before you argue with us, Iserina, Sonya and I thought we should make it clear why it's so important you not see that boy."  
  
They were in Sonya's tiny kitchen with Iserina shoved into a chair at the little wooden table. Estenbach had a makeshift ice pack on his face.  
  
"How did you know where we were going?"  
  
"We had a tip-off from a concerned citizen," Estenbach said. "That's all you need to know."  
  
"Iserina, I know he seems nice, but he's way too dangerous for you," Sonya said. "And if he's not dangerous, his family is."  
  
"Garma's not dangerous. He doesn't even eat meat."  
  
"Neither did Hitler. Sonya, the photos."  
  
Iserina gasped as Sonya dropped a pile of 8 x 10 colour photos in front of her. The top one was a closeup of a dead person, a woman Iserina thought. It was hard to tell. Her(?) skin was green and her features were too distorted to tell.  
  
"The colony that was dropped onto Sydney, Australia? They didn't evacuate the population before they did that, they gassed them," Estenbach said. "These were transmitted by some brave souls who wanted to let the outside world know what was happening before they died. Look, here's more. Men, women, children, all killed without mercy. This one, now, part of what used to be Side One? Nuclear weapons." He turned to photos of charred bodies, mutilated survivors. "Nice, eh? There's your Zabi handicraft for you."  
  
"You have no proof Garma had anything to do with this."  
  
"He was working directly for his sister Kishiria, hun," Sonya said, her arm around Iserina's shoulder. "We can prove that, just with Jion newspapers. It wasn't anything they hid."  
  
"Look," Estenbach said, and he tossed down printouts from microform of various newspapers. Sure enough, there were photos of Giren and/or Kishiria delivering speeches, and Garma was in the background of all of them, blurry because he wasn't the focus.   
  
It was true. Garma had never said that he was against the war or anything like that. He believed in his kingdom enough to have its seal tattooed proudly on his arm. "He was only a spy," she whispered.  
  
"Afraid so, hun," Sonya said.  
  
"Come on, Iserina, let's go home," her father said gently.  
  
That weekend, Iserina waited for Garma under the clock at Grand Central Station. When he came sweeping towards her, she put a hand on his chest to keep him back.  
  
"This isn't a social call," she admitted.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Garma, I have to end it. Here." Iserina took his officer's ring from her pocket and handed it to him.  
  
"Iserina, why? What's this all about? Was it the fight with your father? I'm sorry, I just couldn't watch him hurt you like that--"  
  
"It's not that. It's your family, Garma, and their war crimes, and that I don't know if you were part of them."  
  
Garma was silent. "Oh."  
  
"Do you see my problem?"  
  
"Can you walk with me?"  
  
Iserina pointed to the west side of the concourse. "My dad's over there. See him?"  
  
Garma turned so his back was to the mayor. "Iserina, I can't talk freely to you here." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I have opposed the war, but it had to be secret."  
  
"Yes, well you're good at that, aren't you?"  
  
"I am, thank you very much."  
  
"So what did you do," Iserina asked sarcastically, "conspire to kill Giren? Free General Revil?"  
  
Garma gaped. "Iserina, even if I did, I couldn't talk to you about it. I'd be a dead man."  
  
"I can't live with all this secrecy and intrigue anymore, Garma. I'm sorry. I hope you meet a woman or man of your own class who'll understand, because I certainly don't." She turned and walked away from him.  
  
"What you did was a difficult and courageous thing, Iserina," Estenbach said as she joined him. "Let me buy you lunch."  
  
"I'm not very hungry, Daddy."  
  
"Then we'll go right home."  
  
"I think that'd be best."  
  
*****  
Garma quietly returned to his quarters and poured himself a glass of tequila. He sat down at the baby grand in his living room and rested his fingers gently on the keys. With no effort, something in A minor began to emerge from his fingertips, echoing the pain and unease in his soul. He moved down the keyboard into the more thunderous range of the piano, then back up. He still didn't have words to express what he felt, but Garma Zabi was no animal to simply howl his grief against his pillows. He let his hands and the keyboard make the sounds instead.   
  
Garma stopped and drained the glass of tequila, then refilled it. A piece of song came into his head and he played the opening chords before going straight to the words that touched his heart:  
  
"Well you can fall for chains of silver, you can fall for chains of gold  
You can fall for pretty strangers and the promises they hold  
You promised me everything, you promised me think and thin  
Now you just says, oh Romeo yeah you know I used to have a scene with him.  
  
Juliet, when we made love you used to cry  
You said I love you like the stars above, I'll love you till I die  
There's a place for us, you know the movie song  
When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong?"*  
  
He closed the cover over the keyboard, not wanting the saltiness of his tears to damage it.  
  
  
*"Romeo and Juliet", by Dire Straights, covered poignantly by the Indigo Girls. 


	4. Boy Gets Girl Back Again

Garma awakened feeling terrible. It wasn't just a hangover, he realized with a sinking feeling. His throat was sore and he was having trouble swallowing. When he sat up he started coughing while at the same time his bloodstream was screaming for nicotine. The stress of Iserina's breakup must have taken what would have been a little cold and let it conquer his body.  
  
  
  
He hauled himself out of bed and to the balcony where he lit up the first cigarette of the day with shaking hands. At the first drag he started coughing like a tuberculotic and fell back into a chair. The day was already humid, hot, and disgusting. He forced himself to inhale enough smoke to quiet the craving, then crushed out the cigarette and returned inside.  
  
  
  
Knocking back a litre of orange juice helped, as did a cool shower. When his valet came in with his uniform, he asked, "Carl? Could you do me a big favour? Could you just let me be alone in peace until the absolute last minute before I have to be out there?"  
  
  
  
"Certainly, sir." Carl looked quizzically at him. "Are you all right?"  
  
  
  
"No, I'm afraid not." Garma knew how he must look, with wet hair, in t- shirt and pajama bottoms.  
  
  
  
"If my lord will excuse me." Carl came over and touched Garma's forehead gently. "You're running a fever."  
  
  
  
"I know. That's why I want to sleep as long as I can. I can't miss being at this Foundation Day thingie. It's the tenth anniversary of our kingdom, after all, and I'm viceroy." He fell back against his pillows. "For all the good it does me."  
  
  
  
"Rest, sir." Carl arranged the covers over him.  
  
  
  
Two hours later, Carl returned to wake Garma. He helped his prince sit up and dressed him like a doll. He gave Garma some cold cola and a handful of vitamins, then saw him downstairs. The outdoor thermometer read 36 degrees celsius.  
  
  
  
Most of the event was endurable as Garma was sitting in a throne as representative of the king. He knew his expression must be pained, but there was little he could do about it. He was trying to will himself not to sweat, not that any of the officers around him on the reviewing stands were having any luck. They had to stand and salute for the national anthem. Usually only two verses were performed and his heart sank as the orchestra went into the third, fourth, and fifth. For fuck's sake, did anyone even know the third, fourth, and fifth verses? Garma knew he didn't.  
  
  
  
Drop the salute...stay standing as the troops start going by the reviewing stand. Boy, there were a lot of them. Garma wasn't sure if he was cold or hot. A Dopp went overhead, but how could that be, he was standing right th---  
  
  
  
Garma was distantly aware of droppping, then a feeling of impact, then what felt like dozens of hands on his body. Lots of yelling...  
  
  
  
He awakened in a hospital room, already in a gown. The clear tube of an IV bag snaked down into a vein in his right wrist. Carl, good old Carl, was patting at his face with a wet washcloth. "How do you feel, sir?"  
  
  
  
"Oh god." Garma rubbed his eyes with his left hand. "I passed out, didn't I?"  
  
  
  
"Your fever's 103, sir. They're giving you fluids and you swallowed some Tylenol. Oh, here's the doctor."  
  
  
  
The doctor, a tall woman with short blond hair, reached out a hand. "Your Highness? I'm Dr. Aylmer."  
  
  
  
"Carl says I've got a fever and I fainted."  
  
  
  
"That you did." She opened up a chart. "You have heatstroke and a really bad flu at the moment. I'm going to feed you fluids, get your fever down, and keep you here overnight. I really should scold you too for being a smoker. It says here you've been one for four years."  
  
  
  
"Nerves. Just nerves. That's why I smoke." And much less to live for, now, he reflected sadly.  
  
  
  
"Take up knitting," the doctor said, and left him. Garma closed his eyes and fell asleep again, aware of Carl remaining to keep him company.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Estenbach threw the morning paper onto Iserina's lap as she was drinking her coffee. She picked it up and looked at the headline, "Jion Prince Collapses During Foundation Day Ceremonies." The photo showed a cluster of Jion officers huddled around the fallen Garma, of whom only some hair and one arm was visible.  
  
  
  
She lay the paper aside coldly. "I broke up with him, Daddy, so there's nothing between us now." She sipped at her coffee again. "Not that I wish him any hurt. He's a nice boy, even if he is a Jion."  
  
  
  
"Good girl. It was the right thing to do." Estenbach squeezed his daughter's shoulder warmly. Usually Iserina enjoyed his approval, as she received it so rarely. Today, though, she felt she'd sent Garma into the hospital herself, as surely as if she'd wounded him, and her father's pleasure in this made her stomach churn.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Garma spent the next two days in bed but was eventually back on his feet and in the office. The first thing he did was put in a requisition to Kishiria for short-sleeved uniforms of a lighter fabric. The response he received back was that there was no budget for new uniforms, but if he wanted to pay for modifications himself, go ahead. Garma tugged irritably at the double lined fabric of his sleeve and called Carl. Within a week, sleeves had been shortened all over the base and helmets had been abandoned for an order of dark brown Tilley's hats. Morale soared.  
  
  
  
If only he could fix the ache in his heart so easily. The last time he'd broken up with a girlfriend, there had been training on a brand-new experimental mobile suit to distract him. Now, there wasn't so much as permission to even climb into a cockpit. Not that Garma wasn't busy, but too much of his work reminded him of Iserina. There was one Board of Trade meeting where Estenbach was present, puffing away on a cigar and casting glances that Garma interpreted as saying, "I didn't like what you were doing with my daughter and made you stop, you son of a bitch."  
  
  
  
One hot night, Garma finally gave in and decided he had to ask someone older and wiser for advice. If he could get through to Iserina, tell her there was an escape for the two of them, perhaps she would come back. She hadn't been happy about breaking up. Garma sat on his balcony in shorts and t-shirt, something called a Long Island Iced Tea beside him. No iced tea in there, but plenty of booze. He opened up his laptop and started to send an e-mail message to Giren.  
  
  
  
He stopped for a moment. He couldn't tell Giren the truth about what was going on. Garma sipped his drink and the ice in it reminded him of a snowball playfully shoved down his pants by his older sister at the Antarctica Convention. He smirked a bit. What goes around comes around, after all. He started typing.  
  
  
  
To: girenzpersonal@zabihome.royal.jion.gov  
  
From:garmaz@zabihome.royal.jion.gov  
  
Re: advice wanted  
  
  
  
Dear Frater Major:  
  
  
  
I'm writing to you since even though we don't get along, you are the most politically wise member of the family. I am worried about Kish. She's playing it close to the vest, but she's fallen in love with the son of this guy in Western Europe who hates Jions and is prominent in the resistance movement. She called me the other night and said that she didn't know what to do, she and Miguel love each other, but they know that it's a Romeo and Juliet situation. Please advise.  
  
  
  
Giren responded back shortly:  
  
  
  
Dear Frater Minorissimus:  
  
  
  
I always knew she had this sort of stupidity in her, but didn't expect it to come out this way. Tell Kishiria to stop acting like such a great baby. Of course she can't marry this fellow, and she'd best learn to accept it.  
  
One of the facts of life when you're in a royal family is that your marriage has to be dynastic and happiness be damned. I don't love my wife, you know that, and while Dozel loves his, he just happened to be fortunate in that he fell for a girl from a family Father wanted to court. Father's pondering who Kishiria is going to marry even as we speak.  
  
As for YOU, would you prefer this Russian princess or this Spanish one? Photos attached.  
  
  
  
Garma stared glumly at the response. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but he knew that if it was political advice from Giren, it was more than worth considering. He printed out the photos and looked at them. He couldn't see himself with either woman. He tucked the photos and accompanying e-mail into the blue composition notebook in which he kept his journal and put them away.  
  
  
  
He needed a military victory of such magnitude that his father would deny him nothing. So far, nothing had come his way, and he had not been given permission to carry out espionage. That task was in the hands of Kishiria's command, and on a lesser level, Dozel's. How could he achieve such a victory in a relatively quiet area with a dejected population?  
  
  
  
Garma sat down on the couch, feeling depression engulf him. He couldn't think of anything. Maybe setting up meetings with those princesses wasn't such a bad idea after all.  
  
  
  
Politics were moving along swimmingly, at least. Garma addressed the now- colonial congress of Mexico and impressed them with his smoothly fluent Spanish as well as his commitment to bringing the country's infrastructure in line with its neighbours to the north. Afterwards, he and his entourage travelled down to Oaxaca, which was the frontier of Jion-held North America. There Garma mounted a horse and rode out to negotiate with the Zapatista government that held the rest of the country down to the border with Guatemala. They would not agree to turn their territories over to Jion, but they were willing to end hostilities in exchange for some roads. Garma signed that agreement with them.  
  
  
  
On the way back to New York, his throat began to ache again. Doses of vitamin C and echinacea brought no relief, and to his frustration, Garma watched his body betray him once again.  
  
  
  
"You've got a lung infection," Dr. Aylmer told him matter-of-factly after doing a blood culture. "I'll put you on antibiotics and you need to take it easy."  
  
  
  
"I've got an emergency conference in Quebec City," he stated flatly. "I absolutely must go. There's been some terrorist activity from a group called the Patriotes and I have to speak to the provincial premier."  
  
  
  
"It's your funeral," he was told. So of course he went anyway, and came home with pneumonia. Once again, he had to let Carl help him into pajamas and bed. After that, everything became blurry and distant, as if he were underwater. When he slept, his dreams were vivid and surrealistic, merging the reality of sounds around him with the lurid colours in his brain. At one point he thought he felt Carl's lips on his own, and the sensation was extremely nice.  
  
  
  
Mental note: apologize to Carl for making him be go-between for me and Iserina. Insensitive of me.  
  
  
  
  
  
Garma didn't respond to the antibiotics he was given, and on September 8, word was sent to Degin Zabi that his youngest son's situation was extreme. Degin dispatched Kishiria to New York, as she was closest.  
  
  
  
Kishiria entered Garma's room to find her brother unconscious, breathing from an oxygen mask with his arms full of IVs. She shuddered, hating scenes like this. His valet was sitting by his side, looking as if he was watching the end of the world, but he rose and saluted as was proper.  
  
  
  
"I've spoken to Garma's doctor," Kishiria said, removing her helmet and lowering her mask, "but how is he?"  
  
  
  
"I don't think he's going to make it," Carl said.  
  
  
  
"And why not?" Kishiria arched a brow imperiously.  
  
  
  
"He's dying of a broken heart, ma'am. Not pneumonia."  
  
  
  
"I've heard of this ailment, but never experienced it myself." She took a seat by her brother's side. "How did it happen?"  
  
  
  
"I'm not at liberty to disclose many details, ma'am. He fell in love with someone inapppropriate, an Earth woman. I came under instructions to see to it that the relationship ended. I succeeded."  
  
  
  
"An Earth woman." Kishiria sighed deeply. "Well, you did the right thing, even if those orders didn't come from me."  
  
  
  
"No, ma'am."  
  
  
  
"So did they come from Dozel or Giren? Who's your master?"  
  
  
  
Carl hesitated. "Prince Garma, ma'am, but I keep track of him for Prince Giren."  
  
  
  
Kishiria examined the man's facial expression and felt sorry for him despite herself. Lt. Jorgensen had been placed as a spy, of course, although the action demanded by Giren had been excruciatingly proper. Before her, though, she saw a man who realized now that carrying out his duties had not freed the man he loved from the Earth woman's snares, but possibly killed him instead.  
  
  
  
"Return to your quarters and await re-assignment," she said to him.  
  
  
  
"Yes, ma'am." He saluted and exited as Kishiria took his place by Garma's side.  
  
  
  
Carl Jorgensen was executed the next morning with a single bullet to the back of the head. The official cause of death was friendly fire during a training exercise.  
  
******  
  
  
  
"I'll warn, you, ma'am, that if Prince Garma does not show improvement in the next 24 hours, you'd best take him back to Jion," Dr. Aylmer told Kishiria on the following day.  
  
  
  
"To die?"  
  
  
  
"I'm afraid so."  
  
  
  
Kishiria nodded grimly and stroked her brother's hand. She smiled a little  
  
at his tattoo, which she'd never seen before. How terribly romantic of Garma, to have inscribed his allegiance on his very skin. Idealist. Artist. Poet. Fool.  
  
  
  
"This is no way for you to die," she whispered to him. "Don't do it, soldier. That's an order."  
  
  
  
In the meantime, Garma, or at least his consciousness, was standing beside the bed looking down at the scene. He felt bad for Kishiria and wished she could understand that he felt fine, that it was only this useless body of his that was suffering. She was crying now over him, and he had never seen that before. It disturbed him. He was getting ready to leave when his brother Cicero appeared by his side.  
  
  
  
"It's been a long time, little brother."  
  
  
  
Cicero looked well, standing tall and broad-shouldered as Garma remembered him, his curly red hair falling around a face not quite as handsome as his own but by no means homely either. "I guess you've come for me?"  
  
  
  
"No. You still have a role to play in this war, Garma, and it's an important one. You won't like it, but you will inspire many."  
  
  
  
"I'm tired of fighting. I've spent my life fighting to breathe, fighting Dad, fighting our brothers and sister. Fighting to show I'm not an officer in this army just because I'm a spoiled brat."  
  
  
  
Cicero chuckled. "But you are a spoiled brat."  
  
  
  
Garma winced. "I know. And I'll keep being just a spoiled brat until I'm tested, which is something that no one seems to want to let me do. Including that piece of meat there I'm encased in." He gestured to his inert form on the bed.  
  
  
  
"Iserina seems to like it."  
  
  
  
Garma "sighed". "Iserina...."  
  
  
  
"She will be yours, don't worry. That can't be changed. Just remember one thing: You've got to kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight."  
  
  
  
With that, Cicero grabbed Garma and threw him forcefully back into his body. Garma's eyes snapped open and he shot upright in bed, taking a deep gasp from his oxygen mask. He almost knocked over Kishiria, who had been half-asleep with her head on his shoulder.  
  
  
  
"Dr. Aylmer!" she called out. "He's back!"  
  
  
  
*****  
  
The Four Seasons made a very good chicken salad, just as Chad had told her. Iserina sat across the table from him again. Same table even. Iserina looked around the dining room. Nothing had changed. Had she fallen asleep during her last lunch with him here and only dreamt about loving a prince?  
  
  
  
The prince was real. This was confirmed when Chad's cell phone went off and to her disgust, he answered it in the middle of the first question he'd directed to her in an hour. "Yes? What's the occasion? Really? Never thought I'd hope for that. Yes! Sell! Sell!" Chad turned the phone off and said, "Well, I stand to make a killing today. The stock market just spiked ten points."  
  
  
  
"What made that happen?"  
  
  
  
"We'd gone into a slump because the Jion North American commander was sick. They tried to cover it up of course, but he was missing for days, then his sister flies in from Luna...I mean, you do the math."  
  
  
  
"How sick was he?"  
  
  
  
"Nobody knows, but it must have been serious for one of the Royal Family to come down for him, right? Anyway, he just allowed himself to be shown on camera and he looks like hell, but he's obviously alive."  
  
  
  
"Well that's  
  
a good thing." Iserina picked at her salad, trying to control her emotions.  
  
  
  
"Don't tell me you've got the same case of steaming undies for him that every woman in North America seems to."  
  
  
  
"Far from it," she assured him in clipped tones. Which was true; her case of steaming undies was quite different from those of any other woman in North America. Not that Garma deserved that from her, and he especially didn't deserve the quickened heartbeat she felt from hearing he had apparently cheated death.  
  
  
  
After coffee, Chad reached for her hand gently and leaned forward. "Slap my face if you want, but I can't stand looking at your beautiful face anymore. I booked a room upstairs. Come with me?"  
  
  
  
Iserina blinked at him. That would send her father through the roof if he knew, and it'd make sure she cut the ties with Garma.  
  
  
  
"Sure, why not?" she answered.  
  
  
  
She accompanied him to a hotel room far above 5th Avenue. Chad got champagne from room service. Iserina knocked back a glass or two before she could quite bring herself to start making out with him. He was a bit of a mushy kisser, which she didn't like at all. He turned out to have a nice body though, which she knew came from raquetball three times a week. A nice body was always a plus; she had never gotten a chance to see--  
  
  
  
No, steer thoughts away from that subject and stay in the moment; Iserina told herself. Chad's lips on her throat, his hands expertly undoing her bra, caressing her stomach gently, which felt good...  
  
  
  
Iserina thought that this might end up being a worthwhile lunch date after all.  
  
  
  
"Oh, you've got a tattoo. A little teddy bear. That's so cute."  
  
  
  
Iserina snapped from her trance. Good Lord, what was she doing? She broke away from him, grabbing her blouse and buttoning it up.  
  
  
  
"I'm sorry, Chad, I really am. This was wrong of me. You're a great guy, but I just can't do this, and I should have known better!"  
  
  
  
She bolted out into the hall, blouse still half open. He was naked, so she knew he wouldn't be following her anywhere. She ran for the stairs, straightening her clothes as she fled.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Garma was still weak, so Kishiria kept the pace gentle as they jogged side- by-side around the track. The morning hinted that the day would be steamy, but right now it was pleasant enough. Kishiria was leaving that day and Garma had wanted some exercise before breakfast. He only made it around the track once before slowing to a walk, bending over to stretch his back. Kishiria jogged in place beside him.  
  
  
  
"Don't overstress yourself, pipsqueak. You did just fine."  
  
  
  
"Kish? What happened to Carl?"  
  
  
  
They sat down on the grass together. "Garma, Carl kept the details secret, but I know you had some kind of affair with an Earth woman. He was the one who blew the whistle on you. It was the right thing to do, but he shouldn't have betrayed his lord's confidence like that. I had him re-assigned."  
  
  
  
Garma fixed his eyes on her. "So where's his grave?"  
  
  
  
Kishiria looked away. "I guess my methods are becoming too transparent. The body's been sent home to his family. They'll receive his pension, don't worry."  
  
  
  
"Why did he betray me?"  
  
  
  
"Ask Giren."  
  
  
  
"Shit. Can I do nothing without one of you interfering with my life?"  
  
  
  
Garma stood and stomped away. Kishiria followed him.  
  
  
  
"Garma, I'm sorry. I just couldn't allow that to go on. I'm leaving one of my own assistants here with you. His name is Lt. Darlota. He's very discreet. I'll miss him, because he is under orders not to report back to me. You'll have your privacy this time, and the right to make your own mistakes."  
  
  
  
"It's too late for me and Iserina," Garma said, and to her credit, Kishiria didn't ask who Iserina was.  
  
  
  
  
  
Late that night, Garma found he still couldn't sleep, even with a half- litre of premium ice cream in his stomach and a hot aromatherapy bath before retiring. He lay on his back in bed, arms folded behind his head, watching the shadows on the ceiling. He'd survived another serious illness, so in his opinion it was time to take stock of his life.  
  
  
  
What did he want? He wanted to be left alone by his family to prove he was a man worthy of responsibility and admiration. That wasn't so much to ask, was it? Okay, with that priority in place, how would he achieve it? He'd been doing well on the diplomacy front, and he was justifiably proud of that. Still, the average Jion on the street, or more importantly in the battlefield, was not going to comment, "That Prince Garma inspires me because he can negotiate one hell of a trade agreement!"  
  
  
  
No, he'd have to manage something with considerably more fireworks.  
  
  
  
He rolled onto his stomach, kicking one foot in the air. He still remembered that dream he'd had about Cicero. He'd told Garma things in the dream, but he couldn't remember them now. Except for one thing. Cicero had assured him that Iserina would indeed be Garma's. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, a comforting hallucination, but Garma did want Iserina back, with all his heart. The breakup wasn't real; it was under pressure from her father.  
  
  
  
Surely he could make some gesture, say some thing, that would make her realize that he was the one she couldn't live without and then he'd win her back again. What was that last thing Cicero had said? Nothing good comes without some kind of fight...  
  
  
  
It was too late for the baby grand; it would wake up the officers who slept downstairs. Garma turned on his bedside light and padded barefoot across his bedroom floor to his six-string. He sat down on the edge of the bed with it and softly began picking out notes. He knew this one, he was sure of it. "Nothing good comes without some kind of fight..." he sang almost silently. The song started coming to him, his fingers stroking the melody from his guitar. At the end he rested his chin contentedly on the wood of his guitar and smiled. Iserina didn't stand a chance.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Iserina sat on her own bed, feeling dirty. It wasn't just that she'd sunk to almost bedding Chad, although that was bad enough. She came home from that feeling cheap. What made her feel dirty was the e-mail and URLs Sonya had sent her just that evening.  
  
  
  
From: sonya4246@bigisp.com  
  
To : iserina.estenbach@ubimail.com  
  
Re : forgive me  
  
  
  
Rina, I went on the web to try to find more evidence that your boyfriend was the man we portrayed him as last week. I felt really bad, and wanted more proof to show that I'd been a good friend. I still can't prove he had nothing to do with the Jion atrocities, but I don't think he could have been involved much. I think he may just have been the guy pouring the coffee for his siblings. He's never quoted once in post-Operation British articles, he's never given any role in the operation, etc. He might just be the nice guy you fell in love with. Check out these articles I found.  
  
  
  
I'm sorry, and won't be surprised if you never forgive me.  
  
  
  
Iserina had printed all the articles, and their headlines felt like accusations of faithlessness. Garma did an interview on MTV and implied he hadn't known about British until it was too late. An interview with Giren mentioned Garma and Dozel being the framers of the Jion side of the Antarctic Treaty. On Earth, Garma negotiating with Quebecois and Mexican rebel groups.  
  
  
  
Finally, one quote from him to lady journalist Sandra Jane Sanchez, answering the question of why a soft-spoken animal-rights supporter was involved with this war: "It's my country. I'm one of the royals. My opinions on this war are completely irrelevant. I'm not one of the movers and shakers in the Jion military, so as long as my country is at war I will be as well."  
  
  
  
She slumped back on the bed. She had so completely screwed poor Garma over.  
  
  
  
At least her father was listening to her pleas to go to college overseas. She had to get away from New York.  
  
  
  
Iserina rolled onto her side. One of her ears, the one pressed against the pillow, picked up a strange sound, more vibration than noise. She sat up and didn't hear it. She turned off her bedroom light and looked out the window, seeing nothing but their quiet neighbourhood. Maybe it was just a truck taking an illegal shortcut.  
  
  
  
No, there it was again, a sound not so much a booming noise as the footsteps of a giant who was trying to be discreet. She'd heard it once before.  
  
  
  
Suddenly, her room was in floodlights. Iserina threw a hand up over her eyes and groped for her robe, dressed as she was in pink summer pajamas. She heard the whine of the motors in a mobile suit limb, heard a cockpit popping open. The glaring white light faded and Garma was standing on the hatch of the cockpit, wearing jeans and a t-shirt as always. His guitar was over his shoulder.  
  
  
  
She flung her window open. "Garma! You shouldn't be here!"  
  
  
  
"Iserina, I had to. I have to convince you that I'm not the monster your father and friend want you to think I am."  
  
  
  
Her father's voice was in the hall. "Iserina! What the hell is going on?"  
  
  
  
She ran for her bedroom door and locked it, then dragged a small dresser in front of it. She returned to the window. "I know that. Sonya found it out for herself."  
  
  
  
"We were sold out by Carl, Iserina. He must have told your father about us."  
  
  
  
"I thought he was on our side."  
  
  
  
"It seems not. Look, I'm coming over there." He hopped onto the extended arm of his Zaku and walked down the arm, stepping from the palm into Iserina's room.  
  
  
  
She sat down. "Garma, while they had me convinced you were evil, I almost cheated on you. I'm sorry. I was out on a date, he asked in a really civilized way, I figured it'd help me accept we wouldn't see each other again."  
  
  
  
Garma looked down at his toes.  
  
  
  
"ISERINA! Is that Zabi boy in there?" Estenbach demanded from the other side of the door.  
  
  
  
"Yes, Daddy!" she yelled back.  
  
  
  
"I'm calling the police!"  
  
  
  
Garma looked up and shrugged. "I'm not doing anything illegal, unless maybe he wants to try to pin a statutory rape charge on me. Good luck proving that. Besides, I've got diplomatic immunity."  
  
  
  
"Oh, I'm not jailbait anymore," Iserina said. "I had my birthday ten days ago. I think that's why Chad made the move on me when he did."  
  
  
  
"Nice guy!" Garma said sarcastically. "Look, Iserina, I'm not going to  
  
pretend that what you just told me didn't stick a knife in my heart. But you'd been hurt too, and I can see you'd want to be back in the bosom of your people. Er. So to speak. Heck, if I hadn't gotten so sick after you broke up with me, I might have done the same with Carl."  
  
  
  
"Good thing you got sick then."  
  
  
  
"No kidding!"  
  
  
  
"I've called the police!" Estenbach announced.  
  
  
  
"If you came here wanting to play that thing for me, I think you'd better do it now," Iserina said, pointing to the guitar.  
  
  
  
Garma sat down on the bed with her. "I sort of lost my will to live for a while. When I was really sick, I dreamt my dead brother Cicero came to me and he reminded me of this song that says everything I wanted to say to you, to let you know it's going to be okay."  
  
  
  
She nodded. He bent over the guitar, lay fingers on the strings, and began to play for her against a growing background of police sirens:  
  
  
  
Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by?  
  
You never stop and open your eyes.  
  
One day you're waiting for the sky to fall, next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all.  
  
  
  
When you're lovers in a dangerous time.  
  
Lovers in a dangerous time.  
  
  
  
These fragile bodies of touch and taste,  
  
This vibrant skin, this hair like lace,  
  
Spirits open to to a thrust of grace,  
  
Never a breath you can afford to waste.  
  
  
  
When you're lovers in a dangerous time.  
  
Lovers in a dangerous time.  
  
  
  
When you're lovers in a dangerous time,  
  
Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime.  
  
But nothing good comes without some kind of fight.  
  
You've got to kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.  
  
  
  
When you're lovers in a dangerous time,  
  
Lovers in a dangerous time,  
  
And we're lovers in a dangerous time.  
  
Lovers in a dangerous time.*  
  
  
  
Iserina and Garma came together in a kiss full of courage and renewed hope, and they barely even noticed when the cops broke down the door.  
  
-FIN- 


End file.
